


Dead Men's Songs

by whipstitch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, spoilers for SOS and AFFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipstitch/pseuds/whipstitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The songs always found Robert, no matter whose room he hid in or how many pillows he stuffed over his ears. Everybody else just pretended not to hear them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Men's Songs

Robert Arryn was only eight years old, but he was Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East—the _True_ Warden of the East, as his mother said, and that was even better. That meant that he was more powerful than any of the stupid Vale lords, even though they were bigger than him. They might block the passes so he couldn’t have nice food and bother him and just be _bad_ like that because they had swords, but all the swords they had weren’t theirs. The lords were just bannermen, and that meant they were _his_. His mother had told him so. Once he was bigger, they’d all be sorry for not doing what he wanted. Alayne and Lord Petyr didn’t seem to understand this, because they were much nicer than they should be to the lords who gathered at the bottom of the mountain. Alayne was even _scared_ of them, which Robert thought was very silly. Men couldn’t hurt them, not in the Eyrie.

Except for one.

Marillion hadn’t _seemed_ like a bad man. Robert had thought him very nice because he made his mother laugh and played them songs. He hated the songs now. Marillion sang all day and night, and the songs crept through the marble halls. They always found him, no matter whose room he hid in or how many pillows he stuffed over his ears. He only slept a long time when Maester Colemon gave him dreamwine or sweetsleep, and that wasn’t really sleeping. Robert always woke up just as tired as he’d been before, and the songs were always there to greet him. Even though everybody else pretended not to hear them.

It was all Lord Petyr’s fault. First he hadn’t put out Marillion’s tongue like Robert had wanted. He’d put out his eyes instead, and what good did _that_ do? It didn’t matter to Robert if he had his eyes or not. Eyes couldn’t sing. But even after Marillion confessed what he’d done to Robert’s lady mother, Robert hadn’t been allowed to make him fly. Lord Petyr had only sent Marillion back in the sky cells. It wasn’t fair. It was _Robert’s_ job to do justice, his mother said so, and that meant making the bad men fly. And _nobody_ deserved to fly as much as Marillion did, Robert was sure of that. Marillion should have been pushed out the Moon Door so Robert could watch him fall. Instead, Marillion had just walked into the blue— _walked_ , not pushed, and there was a big difference. Robert hadn’t seen him fall. That meant it didn’t count.

“He is dead and gone, and his voice went with him,” Alayne always assured him when Robert complained to her about the songs. “My Sweetrobin must have been having bad dreams. That’s all.”

Robert almost believed her sometimes. Alayne was like his mother now, she’d said so herself, and so she must know everything as mothers did. But Alayne _wasn’t_ really his mother. And she always believed her father. Lord Petyr was the one who said Marillion was dead, so Alayne thought it must be so. Robert knew better. He resolved one day decided to put a stop to it once and for all.

“My lord, please. You are making yourself far too excited,” Maester Colemon said, reaching out to keep Robert from pulling on the door to the solar. “I will send the Lord Protector to speak with you after you have had a nap.”

Robert swatted the maester’s hands away. “I don’t _want_ a nap. And I can’t nap anyway until the singing goes _away._ ” He yanked at the oaken door with all his might. It didn’t budge. “Open!” he shouted at it, using all his weight against it. “Stupid door, why don’t you listen? Do what I _say!_ ”

He felt his limbs grow tingly and weak. _No, not now!_ Robert leaned heavily against the door and took a deep breath. “No fits, no fits, no fits,” he chanted to himself. His mother used to talk them away. Alayne didn’t do it right, and it didn’t work as well when he did it all alone. When his arms stopped quivering, he began pulling at the handle again. Maester Colemon sighed and lifted the latch open for him.

Robert marched past the maester and straight up to the desk. “Where _is_ he?” he demanded.

Lord Petyr looked up from his papers, his eyebrows raised. “My lord,” he said, sounding none too pleased. “What are you doing in my solar?”

Robert scowled. “It’s not your solar, it’s _my_ solar.”

Lord Petyr smiled thinly. “So it is.” He looked past Robert to Maester Colemon. “I seem to recall being told that the little Lord Arryn needs to rest whenever possible. I don’t believe he can accomplish that if he’s interrupting my work, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m very sorry, my lord.” Maester Colemon’s head bowed at the end of his too-long neck. “But Lord Robert was quite insistent that he speak with you. He’ll be put to bed as soon as we are done here.”

“Very well,” Lord Petyr sighed. He turned back to Robert, tilting back in his chair. “What did you wish to discuss? If you have any demands, do at least _try_ to keep them within the realms of possibility this time. There will be no more fresh oranges in the Eyrie no matter how much you insist.”

Robert stomped his foot. “I don’t care about stupid oranges! I want to know where Marillion is!”

“Marillion?” Lord Petyr blinked at him. “The singer? He is dead, my lord. I recall Alayne telling you so repeatedly.”

“No he’s not,” Robert insisted. “You’re lying! I still hear him singing every night. He’s still alive somewhere. Bring him out so I can make him fly!”

“I am afraid you are hearing things, my lord, for I can assure you that Marillion has taken matters into his own hands and flown all on his own. It was terribly inconsiderate of him to spoil your fun. Were he around to hear it, I would give him a stern talking-to on your behalf.”

Robert hated when Lord Petyr rambled in riddles. “He’s not dead, he’s _not_ , and it’s all your fault! He’s still here somewhere because you didn’t let me make him fly! I’m the _Lord._ You’re just the Lord _Protector_. You’re supposed to do what I say!”

“Oh, I believe the law of the Vale begs to differ,” Lord Petyr chuckled. “But I’ll humor you, my lord. You say you hear Marillion’s voice. I say that the man is now nothing more than one of the many stains on the mountainside below us. Either my lord is hearing things—”

“I’m _not!_ ”

“—or the Eyrie has a ghost.”

“A… a ghost?” Robert frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. His mother always told him that ghosts were just bad scary stories, but… _If he’s a ghost, then he’s invisible now. Maybe that’s why nobody else hears it. He already killed Mother. Now he wants to kill me, too._ His arms began to quiver. He grabbed onto the edge of the desk to brace himself. “He’s trying to get me, isn’t he?”

“I certainly would be, were I a ghost,” Lord Petyr remarked.

“It’s _still_ your fault!” Robert shrieked. “If you’d let me kill him like I was _supposed_ to, he wouldn’t be able to come back! He’d be gone for good!”

“And what makes you think that, my lord?”

“Because I’m the Lord of the Vale,” Robert said stubbornly. “People have to do what I say. And if I say they die, then they die and _stay dead._ ”

“I’m afraid your understanding of ghosts is rather different from mine, my lord,” Lord Petyr said. “As I perceive it, ghosts do as they please. They are certainly not bound by the laws of the land—doubly so in this case, since Marillion cared little for them when he was living. What matters is not who killed them, it is the manner in which they died. And… oh dear.” Lord Petyr’s eyes widened. “How unfortunate.”

“What?” Robert demanded.

“Many ghosts are angry men or believe that they were wronged. And who could be more incensed at his fate than a man condemned or executed? Of which, if I am not mistaken, the Eyrie has quite a few.”

Robert blanched. _They’ll all come for me when I’m sleeping._

“Don’t worry,” Lord Petyr continued, smiling. “They will only seek out the man who passed judgment upon them, and I have no doubt you have been a just ruler, my lord. Now, how many men have you made fly?”

“Lots,” Robert whispered. “Lots and lots.” He peered up at Lord Petyr imploringly. “But they were _bad_ men. They deserved it!”

“Oh, I have no doubt that they did. But I am afraid that they will see it differently, my lord,” Lord Petyr told him. “Criminals are seldom rational.”

“Then make them go away!” Robert ordered him. His shaking grew worse, and he tried his best to tighten his grip on the desk. “I don’t want them here, I didn’t do anything wrong, make them go away!”

“I would if I could, my lord, but dead men are even less tractable than live ones.”

“My lord!” Maester Colemon stepped forward. “Lord Baelish, stop frightening him!”

“Did I ever say that the ghosts were real? I was merely telling the boy a story.” He frowned at Robert. “I do hope you didn’t take me too seriously, my lord.”

“No, no, no, they _are_ real!” Robert shook his head violently, the sharp movement causing him to topple over. “Don’t say they’re not, stop _lying_ , stop and make them go _away_ like I said!” Maester Colemon scooped him up and pinned his arms down tightly, bracing for a fit. Robert burst into tears. He couldn’t do anything during his fits, the ghosts could swoop in and get him and nobody would know and the only person who could stop them was dead and staying dead… _Why can’t Mother be the ghost instead?_

As his awareness slipped away, he was faintly aware of Maester Colemon carrying him out of the room. Lord Petyr called after them.

“See that he gets some sweetsleep this time. He’ll never rest without it.”


End file.
